The last few months have been intense—in the best possible way.
Work’s been good. Maybe too good. I’ve settled into a proper rhythm with the stack I’m using, gone almost full-time on a single project, and found myself growing more confident by the day. Tasks that would’ve made me sweat a year ago now feel manageable—even enjoyable.
I’ve been deep in modern tools like Next.js and AWS. I’ve spent serious time with Builder.io, Retool, and Jotai. I’ve learned how to see patterns, how to make decisions based on context—not just tick off tasks one by one. I’ve taken things off my teammates’ plates. I’ve started contributing with intention.
And that’s where the inner monologue kicked in.
"Am I… becoming senior?"
The question short-circuited me.
I’ve never felt senior. I’ve always approached everything like a student. Even the smallest task is a chance to explore a concept, question an assumption, or fall down a rabbit hole of things I didn’t know I didn’t know. That mindset hasn’t changed.
But now I’ve got a few more answers than questions.
The question started echoing louder around my birthday. The imposter syndrome crept in like it always does. I didn’t feel senior—I just felt older.
So I sat with the question a bit longer.
What does “senior” even mean?
I know what the job listings say. I know what companies often mean when they say it. But I started thinking more about what I mean by it—what I’ve seen in the people I’ve admired and learned from over the years.
Is it about time?
Not really. You can sit in front of the same codebase for five years and not grow. Without curiosity, feedback, and some real battle scars, time just becomes repetition. Seniority isn’t a clock you punch—it’s what you do with the time.
Is it about pure skill?
I’ve worked with some freakishly talented developers. Like, Matrix-level stuff. The kind of people who see elegant solutions where the rest of us see a tangled mess. Most of the time, they were younger than me—and sometimes, their technical brilliance came at the expense of everything else. Communication, empathy, working in a team? Not their strong suits. So no, being a genius coder doesn’t automatically make you senior either.
Is it about politics?
This one hurts a bit. I’ve always been pretty introverted. I work with international teams where I’m often not even speaking my native language. I’m not the type to shout my achievements or sell myself constantly. So if being senior meant winning a popularity contest or doing performance theater for management, I’d be screwed. Luckily, it doesn’t. Not in the long run. Developers can smell bullshit a mile away. Real impact speaks louder than a shiny pitch deck.
So… what is it?
Here’s what I landed on: seniority is a mix of a lot of things—none of which work alone.
Experience
Not age. Just experience. Real time spent solving real problems. Debugging, refactoring, shipping, failing. Working with clients. Untangling edge cases. Mentoring juniors. Listening to designers. Sitting in sprint retros and actually reflecting. It adds up.
Skill
You still need to deliver. You need to write good code. Understand tradeoffs. Make things work. Make them better. And you don’t get that from books—you get it from practice. But skill doesn’t live in isolation.
Perspective
A senior sees beyond the task. They think about users, performance, long-term maintainability. They understand that code isn’t the whole product. They build with people in mind—teammates, stakeholders, future devs. They listen more. They slow down. They know when to be opinionated, and when to step aside.
That’s what I strive for—not to be “a Senior Developer™,” but to feel aligned with what I believe seniority should look like. Not for the money. Not for the title. But as a quiet confirmation that I’m growing in the right direction.
If my colleagues trust me more, if I can mentor without ego, if I can build without burning out—then maybe, just maybe, I’m getting closer.
Not a destination. Just a path worth walking.